


Finding Smug Jesus (And Kicking Him To The Kerb To Get To His Daddy)

by spacemonkey



Category: Fake News RPF
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-10
Updated: 2014-12-10
Packaged: 2018-02-28 22:07:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,410
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2748896
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spacemonkey/pseuds/spacemonkey
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jon hates Michael Bay with a vengeance. But Spielberg is God, and they're both sitting in Jon's green room.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Finding Smug Jesus (And Kicking Him To The Kerb To Get To His Daddy)

**Author's Note:**

> I don't even remember why I wrote this fic, but I did. In 2007. And it's both the best and worst thing I've ever written. I hate myself for it

By all accounts, Jon wasn't quite sure  _why_  exactly. Armageddon had been kind of fun, he had to admit, in an over-the-top cry-fest sort of way. The Rock had been awesome - was Bay responsible for that movie? He was going to have to imdb it later - but once Pearl Harbour had hit, it had all been over with. There was just no excuse for that movie. Three hours in a fucking cinema, legs cramping like crazy, for _that_? Jon had wanted his money back.  
  
So it was easy to decide. He hated Michael Bay.  _Hated_  the guy, hadn't even seen The Island, he hated him that much. And that Scarlett girl was hot, so Jon saw that to be a big sacrifice. But still, Bay was a no talent hack, with a penchant for smugness, and what was with the hair?  
  
And yet, he was currently in the studio, and that's why Jon wasn't sure  _why_  exactly. Well, he knew why. Transformers was apparently  _the_ movie of the summer (wasn't that supposed to be Pirates 3? What had happened there?) and getting a director on the show was a big deal, especially one as big as Bay. Not as talented (Bay and talented was an oxymoron). But as big. Or really, as rich. Jon would have much preferred that Shia kid, he seemed alright. Or to be honest, he would have preferred Spielberg.  
  
Who wouldn't? Spielberg had created Indy, man!  
  
And he'd been the EP for Transformers. If that movie was really as awesome as people were saying, and perhaps Jon did have to drag his ass out to see it soon, then he knew Spielberg was the reason why. He'd had visions of the great and noble Steven following after Bay each and every day, telling the minions to scrap everything Michael had said and 'why don't you do it  _this_  way instead?'. Of course, Steven would never let Bay know what he was doing, just let him believe the final product was all him. Because Steven was nice like that, and it wasn't exactly like he needed any more respect.  
  
No, if Jon knew Steven, and he really didn't, Bay would be sitting in his overpriced and sterile mansion, celebrating his latest achievement with a glass of expensive wine, completely unaware.  _thinking_  he was top shit. Again.  
  
Well, he would be, if he wasn't sitting in the green room, getting ready to poof his hair for national television. Why he would choose to come on a show on Comedy Central, Jon had no idea. Probably to show he was cool, or some stupid shit.  
  
God, Jon hated the man.  
  
And he'd have to put up with him for nearly five minutes. Making talk about his vision? Screw that, Jon was going straight for the hair. What the fuck was up with that, anyway?  
  
First, he'd have to face him in the green room, and Jon was heading there now, heavy heart and hand in pocket. He knew if he had it out, there would be tiny fists flying and yells of 'That was for those three hours, you son of a bitch!'. So the hand stayed in the pocket, and as Jon neared the room, mentally practicing his speech of 'it's an honor to meet you, my wife is such a fan' (Tracey wasn't exactly there to defend herself), he passed a couple of interns. One had a stricken look on her face, and Jon assumed she was remembering Bad Boys II. The other shook her head at him, muttering 'can you believe he's here?' as she passed.  
  
Jon was glad his fist was in his pocket. He might just have started throwing punches early.  
  
But as he got to the green room, and heard Bay saying, 'That shot that I planned out? That is going to win the special effects team the Oscar come next year', he grimaced and decided to grin and bear it. Five seconds later, he almost came in his pants.  
  
Steven Spielberg was sitting next to Bay. Steven  _fucking_  Spielberg. For no other reason than perhaps he was supporting the movie. Jon had been sure he was currently filming Indy 4 (Indy! Jon could go on forever about that fucking movie), but he decidedly didn't care, because while teenage boys his age were crushing on Princess Leia and the like, Jon had been all about the Spielberg.  
  
God, and that's what Jon had decided all of three seconds ago to mentally address Spielberg as, rose from his seat, held out his hand and said, 'Hi, I'm Steven.'  
  
 _No you're not_ , Jon had half a mind to scream because they had just decided on God, but apparently God was not all seeing. Jon nodded sagely, impressed by Gods mortality. Would have nodded anyway, had he not been gaping at the man known as God.  
  
'See, I shook your hand straight away when we first met,' fucking Bay piped up from the couch after twenty more seconds of awkward gaping, and Jon's fist twitched in his pocket. What he'd heard was right, Bay really made everything all about him. Fucker.  
  
'Quiet, Michael,' God said, softly, and Bay sat back in his seat. Jon closed his mouth, soothed by the voice of God, and finally shook the hand offered.   
  
It was like finding Jesus. Jon guessed it was anyway, didn't really have anything to compare it to, he'd never found Jesus. It was like the best sex he'd ever had. Doubled, with extra whipped cream. God's hand was soft, like he used cream, but Jon seriously doubted that. Just his natural supple skin, it had to be.   
  
Their eyes connected, and Michael was yammering on in the background, something about that one time Sean Connery showed him respect, but Jon didn't hear it.  
  
'It's nice to meet you, Jon. I'm a huge fan,' God said, their hands falling apart, and Jon was  _this_  close to creaming himself once more. He was going to be needing new pants before the night was over.   
  
'Why are you here?' Jon managed, after a few more seconds of meaningful, deep staring into one another's eyes.  
  
'Supporting Michael.'  
  
Fucking Bay positively  _beamed_  from the couch, not even saying anything because he really didn't need to. It was obvious they were fucking.  
  
At least to Jon it was. Why else would God be anywhere near him? Fucking Bay must've been a good lay. It would explain how he'd made it this far in Hollywood. This time, Jon  _did_  nod sagely. Almost felt pity for Bay, it must've been hard being the town slut when you weren't good for anything else.  
  
'And I wanted to meet you,' God continued, his eyes slipping down Jon's body.   
  
Jon swallowed. There wasn't much else he could do, he certainly couldn't move. 'Really?'  
  
'Mostly, he wanted to support me,' Bay sung.  
  
'Quiet, Michael,' God said again, and again Bay sat back. He was beaming though, the total sub, and Jon found himself deciding that maybe the guy was kind of good looking.  
  
'Mostly I wanted something from you, Jon.'   
  
Bay was nothing compared to God, who  _wanted_  something from Jon?  _Please be sex, please be sex_. From the look in Gods eyes, it was something along those lines, and Jon knew that he would do anything,  _anything_  for his saviour.   
  
And that's how he found himself on his hands and knees in a five star hotel room, Michael Fucking Bay doing the only thing he was really good at - Fucking. And he really  _was_  good at it, Jon decided as his ass took the third pounding for the night. Perhaps Jon would even go see Transformers, even if Bay was annoying him with his chants of 'this is how you do it in  _my_  world.' Smug bastard. Uwe Boll was worse.  
  
The whole thing wasn't exactly what he'd had in mind though. He'd been expecting to fuck God, but no, that wasn't going to happen. Because God was five feet to the right, handheld camera in his hands, and fucking  _directing_ , 'Okay Jon, this is your close up, and I want to _see_  the emotion on your face. The audience has to feel Michael inside of  _them_. Show it!'  
  
And that night Jon ended up giving the best acting performance of his life. It was just a shame no one besides God would see it, because perhaps that would make people forget Death To Smoochy ever existed.


End file.
